A Vision of Death & Fire [+ Research DTA]

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Orianna gathers book after book, scroll after scroll, and tablet after tablet, asking her colleagues to help her when they have a moment between tasks. Before long there is a venerable wall of paper, stone and board around her desk. She pulls out her journal and the loose pages of parchment she copied the strange language onto and begins to work.

Each day she works late. Gerhard’s absence makes this easy and yet every day Orianna returns to their home well after midnight and she longs to fall into his arms. Her study of the strange combination of languages leads her to answers though, which means her efforts are not for naught.

With each passing day Orianna finds the texts speak about a hunger that only the spark of the divine can satiate — but in particular, the spark of the platinum and the spark of the chromatic. She then dives into the religious texts confirming a thought she has about the actions of those undead that preyed upon the acolytes of the Platinum Lord and the Many-Mawed. Orianna discovers that the use of certain organs — the most popular being the heart — was made practice to be the vessel by which to hold the divine power a person has been blessed with. It certainly made it easier to gather sparks, and in a twisted way, guaranteed that these divine blessings wouldn’t be able to run away. The one small comfort she concluded was knowing these were not people’s souls, so even though the followers of the Platinum Lord and the Many-Mawed had died violently, their souls would still be able to journey to their final resting place.

The second part of the texts Orianna worked on was safely translating it as best she could, without going too far into it. Knowing what had happened to the scholars in the Dragonstone Academy and by the fact that she could not read or speak the one language made it easy for her to not overstep, but it was painstaking and tedious nonetheless. The rough translation she ended up finishing with said that power was being gathered at a “good rate”, and that soon “we” will be able to build a thunder that will see the skies blacken under dragon wing.

“Think that has already happened.”

“Hmm?” she intones questioningly. Orianna looks up from her translation, the candle on her desk dangerously close to the ledge, illuminating half her face as she turns towards the wizened scholar about to descend the stairs of the tower.

“Ah, just- I heard you say a phrase aloud in the dragon tongue. Or mostly dragon tongue. You may want to get some lessons to work on your pronunciation, Miss. Èirigh. You’ve got a natural talent for it, but some clear teachings will make you sound more fluid.”

“I was going to ask a-an acquaintance of mine to teach me, actually. But what did you say, professor?” Orianna asks.

“Oh! Right, yes. I said, ‘I think that has already happened.’”

She frowns. “What has happened?”

“The skies darkening under dragon wings.”

“I don’t-” Her mind catches up. “Oh. You mean the invasion a few months ago.”

“Precisely.”

“This is not referring to that,” Orianna says, laying the paper down.

“Are you so sure?” the elderly half-elf asks.

“I am sure,” she says, more forcefully than she meant to. She presses her lips together. “It’s related to the prophecy I brought back from the Sunset Spines before the invasion.”

The professor shrugs. “You may be right. Or you may not be. Prophecies are not an exact science. Ha! But then, the work we do here in this tower is also not exact science, much as Brennan in the Alchemy Department likes to say. Ha-ha-ha…” He turns to leave.

“It’s ‘blacken’.”

“I’m sorry?” the professor half turns back to her.

“The word is not ‘darken’. It is ‘blacken’. ‘The skies will blacken under dragon wing…’”

“Yes well…” he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He always thought it strange that one so young as her would be so studious. Her work nearly put his own to shame. The professor softly clears his throat. “Whatever it says, don’t stay too late. It’s been a long ten-day and you deserve your rest, Miss. Èirigh. I’m sure young Gerhard would like to spend time with you too. Good night.” He left without waiting for her reply.

She hears him shuffle down the stone stairs and then she is alone. Orianna picks up her quill and pulls another scroll towards her, making more notes in her journal as the ring on her little finger makes soft tap-tap-tapping sounds against the wood of her desk.

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A few days after completing her research Orianna begins to suffer from some rather extreme headaches. She often finds the cool and calm atmosphere of the Academy helps to elevate some of the pain however, so even though Gerhard has returned once more from another trip on the Infinite Staircase, the young librarian spends more time in the halls of knowledge than she does at home.

As she works on putting her findings into a handy pamphlet she could pass on to Nessa come the morning, the hours tick by and before she realises it night has fallen. Orianna’s head begins to droop despite her best efforts to stay awake. She rests her head on the open book in front of her, it’s pages a softer pillow than she would have thought possible. Peacefully, she drifts away…

She is suddenly awoken by the sound of distant shouting and arguing. Sleepily, Orianna rubs her eyes, blinking away the bleariness and her confusion as she takes in her surroundings. She recognises the room, but it’s not the one she was just in. It is the one in the Dragonstone Academy where she copied that strange language. She sits up straighter, her tiredness falling away. The desk she is at is at the front of the room, the blackboards empty. As she turns around Orianna knows before seeing she is the only person in here. A fine layer of dust- No, ash covers every surface.

Orianna swallows nervously.

This feels different than the visions she has had in the past, yet it is something different than a dream. Whether one or the other, one thing is for certain, things don’t feel very real.

Doesn’t mean they aren’t, she reminds herself.

The shouting gets louder again, drawing her attention. It comes from the main door at the back of the room. Orianna carefully gets up, trying to disturb the ash as little as possible as she cautiously makes her way up the steps. Being as quiet as she can, she listens to the voices, hoping she will be able to understand them.

Orianna can hear two distinct languages, Common and Draconic, though it’s hard to make out exactly what is being said when she only knows one of the two tongues. It sounds like two sides arguing in a large hall with several people getting involved. Frowning, Orianna reaches towards the door handle and turns it. Carefully, she eases the door open, stepping out just enough to get a better sight of the people in this “conversation” whilst keeping most of her body hidden behind the door so as to not be too obvious. Even in visions, if this truly is one, if she is too brash or too obtrusive it can shatter what she is seeing.

She is greeted not by the hallway she remembers, but a huge cathedral that spans to the left and right of her. A Massively high ceiling makes her feel very small and insignificant whilst managing to inspire a grave sense of awe in her.

To the right the cathedral is bright, made of white marble with veins of platinum decorating the stonework in beautiful pictures of art. Several windows depict the various versions of metallic dragons — gold, silver, copper, bronze. The floor slowly rises up in steps to the back wall. Standing on these steps at various levels, Orianna recognises members of the temple of Bahamut. But they are looking to the far side of the cathedral, shouting at something. Before she turns away to see what or who they are yelling at she spots Cornelius somewhere near the top, equally as heated in his shouting as the others on his side. At the very top of these steps standing under the largest stain-glass window showing the Platinum Lord himself is an elderly looking silver kobold. This, she takes to be the High Prelate, Loran.

Looking to the left Orianna is greeted with the same layout however the stone is a deep red sandstone with gold metalwork decorating it. The windows on this side show the chromatic dragons — red, blue, white, green and black — in all their fury. The figures on this side all wear the recognisable black robes with the multicoloured piping along the seams, though all have their hoods up causing shadows to obscure their faces. At the top of this side stands a kobold under a window that mirrors the one of Bahamut, though this one depicts the Many-Mawed herself, Tiamat.

None seem to have noticed her arrival just yet.

The heated shouting continues, building and building.

From the opposite side from where she stands, two rows of paladins, one row for Bahamut, one for Tiamat, march out from two huge double doors that swing open. They fall into formation facing each other, shields raised, swords at the ready. Orianna watches as the acolytes on both sides slowly begin to raise up the steps.

As the dawning certainty that she is about to witness the beginning of a gruesome fight becomes more apparent, something catches her eye. Cornelius, climbing a little faster than the other acolytes on his side, reaches the top of the steps and goes to stand just behind the Prelate. His eyes are black with white iris. Orianna quickly turns to look over to the Tiamat side, only to see the scene is mirrored. A hooded figure stands behind the head of the Tiamat clerics, eyes shining through the shadows that hide their face.

Look out!

Orianna pushes the door open all the way, stepping fully into the temple. Swinging her Star Cradle around in a huge arch, stardust trailing in its wake, she summons two giant falcons. These large spectral beasts cry out, their calls piercing the air, drawing everyone’s attention to them. They fly faster than comets across the space towards the two figures — to Tiamat’s hooded leader and to Bahamut’s radiant one — intending to grab them, to get them out of harm’s way.

As the two falcons soar across the cathedral all attention is drawn towards Orianna. Time seems to slow to a crawl, the shouts of the clerics, the raising of sword and shield from the paladins are all now directed at her. Even the wing beats of the magnificent falcons have slowed down, exalted as they may seem mid-flight fixed on their targets, Orianna cannot help but feel it is not enough, as though events are already set in motion. As if the next course of events are predetermined. She watches transfixed as Cornelius and his counterpart continue to move behind their respected heads of faith. There is a brief second of peace, an uneasy tranquilly in the air.

Then the moment is shattered as Cornelius’ hand bursts through the chest of the Prelate. Shock and awe is written all over the old Kobold’s face as he looks down at his still beating heart in the hands of one of his trusted clerics. As blood stains the Prelates’ clothes and spills onto the floor his heart begins to shine with a bright platinum light far more radiant than Orianna has seen previously. It is like a star has been plucked from the heavens itself and is being used to illuminate the cathedral. Mirroring this scene, the priest of Tiamat does the same to their head of faith, however, though this heart shines just as bright, it shines differently — on a warm, golden background, the five colours of the chromatic dragons shine forth from the heart. Cornelius and his opposite jerk back their hands. The hearts are held aloft as Cornelius and his counterpart kneel in the blood of their slain leaders.

Then light in the room begins to dull. A speck of black flame appears in the centre of the ceiling. It slowly begins to spread covering the beautifully decorated canopy of this cathedral. Orianna’s gaze is drawn to the spreading fire, transfixed by it, she begins to hear the whispers of a voice- No, voices. They call out in pain, anger and madness. Then in an instant the flame covers the whole ceiling.

In the flame Orianna sees two burning sets of eyes, then the vague outline of a face, draconic in nature but too generic to pinpoint any specific features, manifests into being. The one feature she is able to make out most clearly is the mouth, as it opens revealing a void of shadow and flame. A lower roar fills the gigantic space and reverberates through Orianna, shaking her very bones. As the roar subsides the divine energies of the two hearts get drawn into the void. As they do the flames begin to grow brighter and seem to burn hotter.

The prelate and his Tiamat counterpart, somehow still standing, begin to convulse, black flames suddenly igniting their bodies. After a few seconds of the fire swirling around them, their screams of pain and suffering filling the great hall, the inferno is drawn into their bodies, changing them in the process. The two figures slowly walk forward, both no longer wearing their previous vestments. Instead, they are donned with matching black robes embroidered with subtle white flames. The true fire of black flames licks out from gaps in their flesh on their newly undead faces, eyes burning with the same fire. Orianna sees that in these eyes a burning intelligence not the mindless zombies she has encountered in the past.

What is happening? This cannot be a vision. Nor is it a dream. It’s too-

The Prelate walks towards Cornelius who remains knelt in the pool of his blood. The undead kobold places a hand on the top of the dragonborn’s head and begins to chant what seems to be a prayer in the same strange language Orianna had been looking into. Cornelius bursts into flames just as the Prelate did, but the Prelate’s hand remains fixed in place and soon spouts of fire shoot from Cornelius and spread to the other clerics. Two bursts of flame rise and slam into Oriannas falcons, burning them from the sky in an instant. The screams of the clerics, acolytes, paladins and sorcerers begin to fill the cathedral from both sides, the noise almost becoming unbearable for Orianna.

As she stands there, watching through the increasing noise, seeing the divine power of all the occupants of the room being dragged from them and hurled into the void in the ceiling, she tries to use her hands to lessen the cacophony of suffering. But it’s too much. They are too loud. One by one all of them are reborn from the flames, re-clad in black armour with white flames carved into the metal for the paladins, or in robes with white flame embroidery for the others.

Then the cathedral falls silent. Orianna didn’t know she had closed her eyes. When she opens them everyone, an entire horde of undead unlike any she has seen before stands before her, staring directly at her.

The pain shouldn’t be real and yet her ears are bleeding. If this were real — Cosmos, it feels so real — then she is sure all the screams and roars would have ruptured her ear drums. Or maybe it is all the necrotic magic. Whatever it may be, it is too much. If only she were a little stronger. If only she were a little bit braver.

If only she wasn’t frozen in fear.

Run.

Orianna didn’t know where the voice came from, if it was her own or something else. There really was only one thing to do. She turns her head away as she raises her Star Cradle.

“Seba!”

A burst of sudden light, bright as any daylight flashes in the air above Orianna's head, directly at the eye level of many of the undead looking at her — but most importantly, high enough to obscure the sight, or so she hopes, of the draconic-like face in the black flames. Then, with everything she has, she turns and runs away.

As Orianna passes through the door behind her it takes her a moment to realise that she is back in the cathedral but on the opposite side she was on before. She watches as the spell she cast begins to dissipate but despite this the undead have already turned to face her again.

“What in the-”

She looks around, confused, her panic rising. Orianna begins to turn to try to run away again. Yet, like before, as she passes through the door, she has returned to the other side with the undead looking at her.

This is just going to keep happening…

The undead have begun to creep closer. Gripping her Star Cradle, Orianna’s clothes melt away, her form shifting until she has become the Archer, a flaming bow ready in her hand.

“What do you want?” Orianna shouts, her voice carrying through the air in strange waves. An arrow forms as she pulls her right hand back, its head a white-hot radiant point aimed up at the head in the dark fire.

The undead all speak in unison, “For you to witness.”

Their words freeze her. Undead that can speak are rare and yet in this vision that’s not a vision all of those here could do just that.

“What do you want me to see?” she asks the room at large.

“To witness the accession of your new god.”

The voice comes from above. Its vastness startles her into letting her grip on the arrow of starlight loosen even as she turns her face up in horror and confusion. The gathered energy fizzles out into the ether. “New… god?”

“Yes, my divine spark has awoken and soon will burn as bright as the cosmos.”

Orianna doesn’t realise she is shaking. “And what might you be called? If you are a new god as you claim, should not your name be known?”

“My name is Desathrax, the Lord of The Dark Radiance.”

As this name is spoken the fiery face on the ceiling glows brighter. A feeling of reverence fills the cathedral then fades for a second later.

“Desathrax.” Orianna repeats the name as if tasting it on her tongue, feeling out the syllables with her mouth. She doesn’t realise it’s the only part of her that can move. “Your divine spark is not your own. It is stolen, taken from worshipers of Tiamat and Bahamut. Is that not the truth of what you just showed me? What purpose would my witnessing your ascension serve? Why…” She hesitates and her heart skips a beat as both purpose and doubt clash within her. “Why me?”

“My spark is hungry and needs feeding but the spark is all my own. As for why you, you are the one who reached out to me and I have found you worthy, worthy to be one of my heralds once I am stronger. My Star Herald, recorder of my grandeur.”

The undead all bow their heads and as one they speak, “The Star Herald.”

As the sound of one and many hollow voices passing through sinew and bone reach her ears Orianna remembers the first time her Sight awoke. The vast space of a void with stars all around her, their words barely a whisper. In a strange way, this vision of a young god declaring she is his, that he will use her to harken his arrival reminds her of her First.

But is Desathrax the vast presence that perceives her, threatening to pull her towards its terrifying self? To use her so he can get a better foothold in the Inner Realms to sow chaos and destruction?

Or is Desathrax the comet, barrelling towards her? Is she able to stop this collision if she stays where she is or will there be nothing left as he continues on, burning hot, feeding his hunger and becoming unstoppable?

The bow of fire in her hands begins to curl around her wrists, licking up her arms to gather at her back. Two sparks shoot down to her cloven feet, leaving a trail of radiant white as Orianna’s form begins to change, whilst the remaining fire expands out from her back, forming two vast and powerful wings. She blinks, and her pinprick pupil eyes become white slits, the light of a thousand suns burning within them.

“I did reach out. To learn what sort of magic, what kind of being could be doing this.” Orianna gestures to all the undead, staring at her. She shudders and forces herself to focus on the face in the flames. “I have felt the hunger you speak of. The emptiness… The madness.” She takes a shaky breath, her courage and fear warring within her. “What sort of god would you be, Desathrax, when all you’ve shown to me so far is undeath?”

“What is the mind of a god to that of a mortal? What you call madness will all make sense with the clarity I offer. I do not know what god I shall be, the one I am meant to be. As for what you call undeath, I call new life, brought into my light, renewed in my fire, purified in my majesty.”

“Majesty it may be, but even a being outside of the ordered cosmos can instil such feelings.” Even now she feels it trying to make her bend. Orianna shakes her head, trying to focus on her intentions. “I cannot be your Herald. Not when all I have seen has resulted in unnatural death and a chaos that threatens not only the after life but the living world as well. If that is all you can offer…?”

A hideous laughter fills the cathedral.

“Do not worry, my chosen one, in time you will come to see the beauty and serenity that I offer. For now go to sleep and dream of my dark radiance that shall cleanse this world.”

With these words Orianna suddenly feels her eyes get heavy, darkness begins to spread from the corners of her vision. As this vision starts to fade Orianna feels herself loose her balance and begin to fall. Just as her stomach begins to rise and the feeling of weightlessness overtakes her she suddenly awakens back in the safety and comfort of Daring Academy.

A single candle sits in-front of her, its flame dark like the ones in her vision. But then it flickers and returns to a normal warm flame a moment later.

Orianna sits up, but feels the weight of a new headache coming on, strong and hard. That doesn’t stop her thoughts from racing though. Gerhard would want to know everything right away and she needed to talk to him now. But what if he’s not there when she gets home? Who else could she talk to?

She turns her violet gaze up to the window by her desk. It is late. She can see only a sliver of the moon past the crawling clouds covering the night sky. On shaky legs she gets up, her fingers cold and stiff. Orianna begins to rapidly stuff whatever is on her desk into her bag, hardly paying attention to what she grabs. Then she turns to leave, stepping out of the Star and Night Sky department’s tower, a well practised flick of her tail snuffing out the light of the candle.